The Lies You Tell Yourself
by Cyri's Alter Ego
Summary: "But you are the Sexta Espada, the Pantera, and you do not cry. Isn't that right?" GrimmUlqui, rated for a couple of curse words.


_Um. This was supposed to be a 'cheer-me-up-after-the-Byakuya-fiasco!' fic, but because I was crying and sad after the Byakuya fiasco (I don't want to spoil in case you haven't read Bleach 502 yet!), it turned into this. It's a 'Grimmy's-alive!' fic, because in my opinion, Grimmy IS alive. After this, if he's not... I will not be impressed with Kubo. Not. Impressed. In the slightest._

_I don't own Bleach, or... or I would have... I... BYAKUCHI! *sobs*_

_First line inspired by Maximo Park's lyric "We lie, horizontal holding hands" from Reluctant Love :3 In fact, I wrote this whole thing listening to sad Maximo songs, so yeah ^^_

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**The Lies You Tell Yourself**

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We lie horizontally. Horizontally, on our backs. Horizontally, on the ground. Horizontally, holding hands.

Your hand is very warm. Very warm, and very alive. When everyone said you had died, I didn't cry, because I never believed them. But, in reality, I must have believed them at least a little, because when you arrived, alive, I didn't believe it in the slightest. Bleeding, broken, but alive.

But I still didn't cry.

I can tell that there are tears on your face now, though. But we don't look at each other, and I don't mention it.

Because you are the Sexta Espada, the Pantera, and you do not cry.

"Stupid," you mutter. And I think that you're talking to yourself. Then your fingers tighten against mine, rough with scars and burns and the callouses of centuries, and you say, "Stupid shinigami."

I know what you want your words to mean to me. You want them to mean, _Of course I'm angry. _You want them to mean hatred, and violence, and bloodlust and revenge. But I know you too well, Sexta Espada, and to me all your words mean is, _Hold me. I'm sad._

And the difference between what they mean and what you want them to mean is the difference of worlds. I stay silent. I can only increase the pressure between our hands just slightly, and stroke your thumb softly with my pale one. Because anything else, I fear, would shatter this strange balance that we've created.

Yes, you understand correctly. I have fear.

But you are the Pantera, the Sexta Espada, and you do not. Isn't that right?

Pale. Thin. White and untouched. My hands tangle with yours in such a contrast. You're such a physical being - not only in regards to the way you're so suddenly intimate with everyone, even me, but with the way you simply display yourself. Display your wounds. Display your scars.

I, on the other hand, I... Anyone would think that Murcielago was just for show. That I'd never fought in my life. But that's not true, is it, Sexta Espada? You know how I fight. You know how I take wounds from the inside out. But do you know, I wonder, how I'm just as broken as you are?

I hope that you don't. Because I need to be strong for you now.

You hate that I've always been stronger than you, so you say. I can't lie to you; my strength surpasses yours by many times. You hate me being the Cuatro Espada while you remain at Sexta. And you don't say it, but you hate how I'm the one you've turned to after your defeat.

But you won't call it defeat.

Because you're the Sexta Espada. You're the Pantera.

You've sought comfort from the least sympathetic person in Hueco Mundo.

And I'm not sure why I'm giving it.

Sexta Espada, aren't you insecure? Aren't you pathetic? Aren't you terribly, terribly emotional? Aren't you awfully, disgustingly _human_? Such trash that you were beaten by a shinigami. A substitute shinigami, a human himself.

Human. Shinigami. Arrancar.

You're not worth being any of those, are you, Pantera? That's why you became an Espada.

That's why we all became Espada.

And that's why you've now let go of my hand, why you're getting to your feet with a face as hard as... as hard as mine. Why you're drawing your sword and pointing it at my throat as though you'd ever actually hurt me.

"Fight me," you say. You want me to think it's a demand, to feel threatened. But it's a plea.

You're too easy to read, Sexta Espada.

I can't deny you anything. I rise. "You're weak," I observe.

That makes you angry, because it's the truth, and you can't face the truth. It hurts. Your nails dig into the hilt of your sword. "Say that again, bastard."

"What are you going to do?" I unsheath my own sword and face you. I certainly know what _I'm_ going to do. And I don't think you'll enjoy it.

You snarl, snarl like the cat you are. Pantera. "I'm going to hack you to pieces," you claim.

I know you better than you know yourself, because I know that you won't, ever. Even if you are charging towards me with that intent on your face. In your eyes, I can see more tears brimming, furious tears, and I know that those tears will forgive me for what I do next.

I step, neatly, and my Zanpakutō tears through the muscles of your chest.

Your blood taints my sword.

You draw in your breath, and clutch at yourself.

Do you count your scars, Sexta Espada? Do you show them off as trophies of your past battles? Do you think they make you look stronger? Well, let me tell you something.

Scars mean that you've been cut. And that means only one thing.

You lose.

You're gasping at me now as blood pours like a red waterfall out of your flesh. "You... you bastard!" _Thank you. _"You're- I'm not letting you... get away with this!" _I want to be beaten. _"Why do you want to humiliate me like this?" _Take away the loneliness of my victories. Take away the humiliation of my losses. Make my loss into something normal._

Yes. I know what you really feel. And that's why I stay quiet.

I didn't cut you enough to kill you. Strange. But I feel sorry for you, which is what you want, isn't it? You want my pity. You want my sympathy.

But you're the Pantera, the Sexta Espada, and no amount of hurt will make you feel sorry for yourself... yes?

Trash.

Why, then, am I bending down and putting my cold hands on your chest, trying to stem the bleeding, wanting to stop the pain that I created? Why, even though you slap me away, even though you tell me not to come near you, even though you tell me that you hate me?

If you were trash, and if trash was sorted into types, you'd be that one piece of trash that you _know_ is trash, but can't bring yourself to get rid of. That piece up on the windowsill that you _tell_ yourself to get rid of, because it's useless, unsightly, but for some reason, you won't. You can't.

I can't bring myself to be rid of you, Sexta Espada.

But do you know something?

I'm the Cuatro Espada, and I don't believe in emotions.

You are the Sexta Espada, the Pantera, and you are sobbing into my chest.

And we, Grimmjow Jaegerjaqez, are both liars.


End file.
